


painted

by therestlessbrook



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: All my usual tropes, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/M, Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24259003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: In which soulmates’ sins are written on one another’s skin - and Karen is very used to wearing long sleeves.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 34
Kudos: 371





	painted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heidiamalia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heidiamalia/gifts).



For the first thirteen years of Karen Page’s life, her skin is pale and unmarked.

Then, one day at school, she feels a burn against her ribs. It’s hot, but not unpleasantly so—a tingle that usually accompanies sinking into a too-warmth bath. She manages to ask for a bathroom break and ends up in a stall, peeling up her shirt to try and get a better look.

Against her ribs, there’s a word. It’s etched in dark brown and surrounded by irritated red skin, like a barely healed tattoo. She touches her fingers to the word; her skin is fever-warm.

She’s known this was probably coming. Ever since her mom had the talk with her, explaining how babies were made—doing their best to not go into too much detail, but thankfully Karen had friends willing to fill in the blanks.

 _When you’re old enough, you’ll see words on your skin_ , said Mom. _It won’t hurt._

 _When it happens,_ Janice at second period had told her, my older sister says it hurts. _Like, it burns like a brand._

 _These words will be important,_ Mom said, _because they’re how you find your soulmate._

 _They’re sins, all right?_ Said Janice. _They’re ways your soulmate has screwed up in real time. So you get to know all the worst stuff before you meet them. It can be really specific, or it can be something vague._

Karen asked them both the same question: _What if I see something horrible?_

 _You have to be careful not to judge,_ Mom said. _People make mistakes._

 _I mean_ , said Janice, _if it said ‘murderer’ or something, I’d run._

Now, Karen’s fingers sweep across the word.

_Wrath._

* * *

For a long time, Frank is pretty sure he doesn’t have a soulmate.

He’s fine with that. Soulmates sounds like mystical shit, and he’s got better things to think about. He’s in college, enrolled in military science because dad’s friend Ray Schoonover thinks Frank would be a good fit for the Marines. It sounds good, and Frank wants to do good—to do something, at least. There’s a burning itch beneath his skin, a restlessness he can never quite shake.

It happens when he’s on a date, of all things. He’s in a girl’s dorm, under the pretense of studying but they both know it’s going to include far more making out than textbooks. His hand is around the back of her head, and he’s kissing her, when he feels the strange burn against his inner forearm. For a moment, he thinks that she must have accidentally scratched him. He jerks back, and she blinks. “What?”

“Sorry,” he says, touching the skin through his sleeve. “I think—hold on.” He rises, goes to the mirror hung on the back of her door. “Something must have… bit me? Not sure.”

She’s frowning as he peels back his sleeve and peers at the inside of his arm. There’s a word—in deepest shades of blue. It says, ‘drugs.’

Drugs.

_Drugs?_

“Oh,” he says, realizing. It’s a fucking soul mark. Frank Castle has a soul mark—which means he has a soulmate.

He finally has one—and it says ‘drugs.’

“Great,” he says. “My soulmate’s a junkie.”

The girl heaves a sigh, finally cracking open their statistics textbook. “Well, good for you.”

* * *

He’s on his first tour when the second word appears.

It’s been boring, mostly; there’s been no major conflict, no ambushes. Frank has spent most of his time scouting for an enemy that never appears. So he reads and he chats with Curt and Bill—and then, one day while he’s out on patrol, he lets out an involuntary gasp.

This one burns. It burns hotter than the first, like someone is etching the word into his skin with a scalpel. It’s near his heart. He pulls at his collar, trying to see what it says.

“What’s going on, man?” asks Bill. He gives Frank a look like he’s losing it. “Something bite you?”

Frank doesn’t answer. He pulls at his shirt until he can see the word in dark blue script. This one is smaller, the handwriting shaky—as if penned by someone who was crying.

_‘Kevin.”_

“Well,” says Bill, “shit. You need to get back to base—call Maria?”

Frank shakes his head. The truth is, he’s always known that Maria isn’t his soulmate. She has never touched drugs, not even pot. When they first got together, she asked if that bothered him.

He answered honestly that it didn’t. Not every relationship is based on some words scrawled into a person’s skin. He knows plenty of people who dated other people than their supposed soulmates and were just fine with their choices.

And besides—he loves her. It doesn’t matter if he didn’t have her sins written across him. He loves Maria and Lisa so damned much. They’re his choice.

“No,” says Frank, yanking his shirt back into place. “It’s fine.”

* * *

It takes a while for another mark to appear on Karen’s skin.

She’s been clean for years, working part time waiting tables in her final year of college. It’s tedious work but she knows how to do it, and she’s trying to get through college with as few loans as possible. She’s serving a family—a dad with two small kids who is trying valiantly to keep them polite and from leaving too much a mess. She’s refilling his coffee cup when the telltale burn slides up her leg. Her thigh is prickling with heat and she manages to keep her professional smile in place only through sheer will.

Once the coffee is full and the kids are happily tossing their scrambled eggs at one another, Karen strides through the kitchens. “I’m taking five,” she says, with so much determination that the line cook doesn’t say a word.

Karen opens the bathroom, flicks on the light and locks the door. She has to shimmy out of her skirt to see the words.

Again, they’re in that dark brown. Some people think that the words are always written in the hues of their soulmate’s eyes, but Karen doesn’t know if that’s myth or fact. All she knows is that there is a shaky scrawl across her thigh that reads, ‘didn’t take the shot.’

_Didn’t take the shot._

Her mind races. A cop. Or a soldier maybe. Or maybe this is something metaphorical, and her soulmate is someone who missed their chance at something.

Either way, it doesn’t affect Karen right now. She pulls the skirt back on and returns to work.

Karen spends most of her time trying not to think about her soulmate; she doesn’t want to find them, because that would mean seeing all of her sins.

And she isn’t sure she can ever face that.

* * *

More years pass before the new words appear.

She’s working at Nelson & Murdock when she feels the jolt of pain.

This one hurts more than all the others, scalds her like she stuck her arm in boiling water. She looks down—and it’s the first time she sees the words actually form. It’s like staining unmarked paper with droplets of dark ink; the words swirl into existence.

_Maria._

_Lisa._

_Frank Junior._

She blinks in surprise at her forearm; these soul marks hurt more than all the rest. The pain usually fades, but this time—it doesn’t. She types those three names into a search engine and nothing comes up. Karen covers her arm with her sleeve, trying to ignore the throb. When Foggy asks if she wants to get drinks with him and Matt after work, she pulls together a smile and an excuse. Then she goes back to her tiny apartment and presses a cold compress to her arm. She curls up in bed, wondering

But her skin burns all night, red and irritated.

* * *

It takes another two months before the words _‘kill them all’_ appear along her hairline, behind her left ear.

Isn’t that just her luck?

She’s glad it’s in a place easily hidden; she keeps her hair down after that.

Then the city begins to fill with blood and bodies, and a creeping sensation steals into her gut.

* * *

Frank goes to war again. But this time, he goes alone.

He’s armed with only the guns he can steal and the armor he can find. He’s on his own—and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s torn between rage and grief, so he tamps both down until he’s numb. He’ll drown himself in bodies and blood, if only so that he doesn’t have to feel.

There’s a new name on his body—it must have appeared when he was in that coma, or whatever medical shit he went through.

_Ben._

It’s written on his side, in that same dark blue hue. He ignores it; his soulmate is the last thing on his mind. Whatever sins she’s committed, he doesn’t care.

They’re nothing compared to his.

* * *

It isn’t until later that she gets it. It isn’t until she hears Frank Castle’s name—and everything becomes clear.

_Frank Junior._

Which means the dad’s name is—

Shit, Karen thinks. Shit, shit shit.

This is exactly what she should have expected—this is what she deserves.

The Punisher is her soulmate. The man who kills killers—is her soulmate.

And Karen is a killer herself.

It almost makes her believe that the universe has a dark sense of humor.

* * *

The woman at his hospital bed has no visible sins.

Then again, she’s wearing long sleeves and opaque tights beneath her skirt. Her hair is long and blonde, and she looks at Frank like she’s torn between disappointment and irritation. There’s no fear, and that in itself is kind of amazing.

She’s the one who crossed that line, who had a picture of his family, and he needs to know why.

“Where’d you get that?” he asks, voice still hoarse. He has to know; has to confirm everything—

“From your house,” says the woman.

“You were in my home?” He looks at her—and he doesn’t know what to feel. Anger, maybe or maybe some sense of violation. But he feels neither of those things. This woman is the first person to talk about his family in months, to look at him like he isn’t a head case or a monster. She looks at him like he’s a challenge—and he’s always had no problem rising to those.

* * *

Karen’s soulmate is a murderer whose face has perhaps a few scant inches of unbruised skin.

It fucking figures.

He has no idea; he can’t know. Karen has become very adept at covering her legs, her arms, the inches of skin behind her ear. She always wears her hair down, keeps her coat near at hand. She will not bare any of his sins to the world; she doesn’t have to.

The world already knows all of them.

But they don’t know the names inked into her skin. They don’t know that those marks never really healed; she still has red, inflamed skin around the names of his family. She spent some time trying to soothe those words, rubbing lotion against the inside of her forearm. But there’s no relief.

She wonders if he has Kevin’s name inked on his own skin.

* * *

Frank doesn’t find out for _months._

It pisses him off, in hindsight. If he’d known—

All right. He’d probably have done everything the same. He’d have used her for bait, found the Blacksmith, killed him, then vanished. Frank has always been a battering ram, an inevitability. He probably couldn’t have changed course even if he wanted to—and he didn’t want to.

He avenges his family.

He dies in the process—or at least, according the world he does.

Pete Castiglione lives on.

He gets a threatening phone call; he goes to Karen for help. Her long-sleeved shirt covers her to the wrists.

He’s never asked about her marks. It’s considered rude.

And the only reason he finds out because David Lieberman placed that goddamn camera on Karen’s fire escape to watch for the flowers. It’s something so trivial, shouldn’t probably have meant a thing, but Frank walks by when David calls him over, saying he’s got mail.

Frank glances at the screen; David’s rewinding the footage, everything on rewind, to the moment Karen placed those roses on her windowsill.

“Pause it,” Frank barks.

David does, looking at him in confusion.

There’s a freeze-frame of Karen there, in her window. The roses in her hands—and she’s wearing a t-shirt.

There are black—no, dark brown—words etched into her left forearm. And he can make out the top two, just barely.

_Maria._

_Lisa._

The last is obscured by the roses, but Frank doesn’t need to see it. He knows what it’ll be.

Fuck.

Just—fuck.

Karen Page is his soulmate. She’s his—

Fuck.

He goes out to his van, sits there for who knows how long. His mind is racing, cataloging every interaction, every word, every look they’ve ever shared. Then he goes to the back of the van and begins stripping off his clothes, glad that the vehicle has no windows. He uses a flashlight to glance over every sin on his body. He’s never paid them much attention before, because he never gave a shit about having a soulmate. He had Maria and the kids, and they were all he needed.

But now he’s got Karen, and he has to know.

_Drugs._

_The Scratch It._

_Kevin._

_Liar._

_Seven rounds._

_Ben._

Every sin holds a story, and he wishes he knew them. Frank has heard all of the theological arguments; he did take philosophy 101. Some argue that the sins are proof of a higher power; other people say that every sin is tied to a person’s own morality; another theory is that every sin is what a person feels most shame about.

He wonders who Kevin and Ben are. He wonders about the scratch it.

‘Seven rounds’ doesn’t leave much to the imagination, but he always knew she could take care of herself.

He isn’t sure how long he sits in that van, how long he gazes at Karen’s sins etched into his skin. He always thought it would be strange to see a person and know the worst things they had done—but rather, there’s an intimacy to it. He’s got her worst moments spread out across him, and it feels like an honor to carry them. They’re moments of her life, and he’s proud of her for surviving them all.

A glance at his watch tells him that he’s got less than an hour before he’s supposed to meet Karen.

He should probably tell her that he knows. He should probably apologize for all of it—for being the world’s shittiest soulmate, for leaving her again and again, for never trying to find her, for using her as bait, for using her for information, for—

Jesus.

Her body must be fucking covered in marks. Names of victims, black ops missions, locations, gangsters. Everything he’s ever done wrong is on her skin. That’s why she’s always in long-sleeves, why she wears pale tights. It’s an illusion of bareness, but she’s bared nothing. Not even the back of her neck. She knows. She’s always known, long before he did. The names of his family are written into her arm—she’s carried them for so long, tied to his loss.

He doesn’t want that for her. Karen deserves… she deserves so much better. And maybe she can still have it. Frank found Maria, after all. There’s nothing to stop Karen from finding someone who could love her and not bring all kinds of shit to her door.

So Frank does the best thing he can for her: he kisses her on the cheek and walks away, determined to leave her be.

* * *

Sometimes Karen thinks about telling him.

She thinks about what it would change. It might change everything—but it’d be far worse if nothing changed. Maybe that’s what she fears; she fears telling him and it meaning nothing.

Besides, Frank Castle isn’t here and she has no way to contact him other than a pot of white roses, and she’s far too stubborn to reach out first. She throws herself into work instead. She writes and writes, loses herself in stories because it’s easier than facing herself.

And maybe she’s a little reckless—okay, more than a little—when that bomber writes to her. When he calls her on the radio. She throws her words at him with all of the fury she’s let simmer at the back of her gut for weeks, vents her frustration on this bastard who thinks it’s all right to hurt innocents. She should probably be more careful, be more cautious.

She isn’t expecting Frank to call her.

“What the hell were you thinking, Karen?” His voice is low and more than a little angry. “Going after a guy like that?”

He sounds as angry as she did when she accused him of being reckless; it’s a kind of anger that’s rooted in worry and love, and—

And for the first time, she _wonders._ If maybe—maybe he knows—

But he can’t know. She’s never let him see any of her skin other than her hands and face. He can’t know. This is just Frank being Frank. So she argues with him, tells him not to go after the bomber and to let the FBI handle it.

Of course he doesn’t listen. Of course he ends up on the news.

Ellison looks at her like she’s betrayed him and Karen can only remain silent. She won’t lie to him, but she won’t give him the truth either. So she gives him the next best thing: an interview with Senator Ori.

Which is how she ends up lying on the floor with Frank Castle, the dust settling all around them.

He came for her. He said he would, and he never faltered. And now he’s bleeding and so obviously injured.

Her hand comes up, pressing against his chest. Her eyes are stinging and her throat far too tight to speak. She isn’t sure what she could say.

Then Frank’s hand is on the back of her neck, cradling her head. Her sleeve is torn, her blouse ruined, and she realizes with a jolt of panic that there are names visible.

_Maria._

_Lisa._

_Frank Junior._

The edges are red and raw, like they always are. She expects Frank to pull back, to snarl, to be furious for her silence.

His thumb strokes back and forth against her neck. His skin is so warm and his breaths unsteady.

“You okay?” His words are too-soft, blunted by the ringing in her ears.

“Yeah,” she whispers. And again, she waits—for the second explosion, the realization. But it never comes. Frank’s strokes her neck one last time, then down her arm, across her forearm and those names, then to her hand.

He uses that grip to pull her upright.

* * *

After the attack on Senator Ori, she doesn’t go home; she ends up at Foggy’s new apartment. It’s far too swanky for her tastes, but she can’t begrudge him his new success.

Foggy insists on her staying for a few days—“A week,” he says, “because I swear, I am—I can’t lose—” There’s a sharp anguish to every word that hurts more than the cut on her forehead. She really shouldn’t be so reckless, if only for Foggy’s sake. He’s lost too much this year. So she hugs him and promises to stay for a few days.

Marci lives with him, and she clucks over Karen’s ruined handbag and clothes, steering her into a bathroom with a promise to find her something wearable.

Karen showers, scrubbing away the dirt and the blood. She can still feel Frank’s hand on her neck, stroking the bare skin where ‘kill them all’ is etched into her.

He knows. He must have known before. She doesn’t know how he knows, because she has never shown him any of her marks. For a few seconds, she’s a little angry—then it vanishes.

Fair’s fair. She knew first. She can’t begrudge him not saying anything.

When she comes out of the shower, Foggy is waiting for her. She’s dressed in the pajamas Marci laid out—they’re short-sleeved. Foggy’s eyes roam across her bare skin, something she’s shown him very little of. His eyes widen and he draws in a short, quick breath.

“We should talk,” says Karen. “There’s some things I never told you.”

* * *

After the CIA lady and her goons leave, it’s just Frank and Madani in a hospital room. For once, he’s not chained to a bed—rather, he’s chained to an IV rig. At least it’s some variety. “We’ll get you uncuffed,” says Madani, when the chain rattles. Her eyes are rimmed with bruises and the bandage is heavy across her head. She looks more exhausted than he’s ever seen—but still, she’s alive. It’s more than Frank could have hoped for.

Frank nods. “You doing okay?”

Madani’s smile is knife-thin. They may have shared many things: a desire to set things right, a keen tenacity, and a certain disregard for the rules, but one thing Dinah Madani will never share with Frank is any sign of weakness.

“I’ll be fine,” she says.

“How’s Lieberman? Sarah—the kids?”

Madani’s mouth softens the smallest fraction. “They’re all okay. In a safe house, under supervision. We’ll get the wife and kids back home, but we still have to get some statements from Lieberman.”

“You’ve got your story,” says Frank, “now you just need the proof to back it up, eh?”

Madani looks more bitter than angry. “It’s best for the government,” she says, “if certain people take the fall. And we’re not putting you or Lieberman in jail.” Still, she doesn’t seem happy about it—he suspects that if Madani had her way, she’d have testified to exactly what happened, her own career be damned.

He knows something. He probably shouldn’t say anything, but Frank’s spent enough of his own life avoiding the things that matter. “When I was—when you were bleeding at the carousel,” he says quietly, “I saw some words on your neck.”

Madani’s hand goes to the back of her neck. “You saw?”

He nods. “Sorry.” Clearing his throat, he says, “It was a black ops mission. Only reason I know—because I was there. So was Billy—and I assume that’s what he told you when he saw those marks. But—but he wasn’t your soulmate, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Madani frowns, trying to work out what he isn’t saying. “Billy didn’t have any marks on him,” she says. “I know that.”

“You should talk to a Curtis Hoyle,” says Frank.

* * *

He goes to her apartment after dropping Lieberman off, after that first group session. He goes so he doesn’t have time to back out, to let his good sense get the better of him. He goes because she deserves some kind of explanation, after everything. So he buys her flowers, stands at her door, and knocks.

And waits.

There’s no answer.

Frank knocks a second time and listens. There are no footsteps, no whisper of movement inside.

Unease quickens his heartbeat; he left her in that elevator at the hotel, what feels like an eternity ago. Maybe she was more badly injured that she let on; she could’ve had internal bleeding or a head injury that only showed up later.

He has her number memorized; he dials and listens to it ring and ring, until it goes to voicemail.

He hesitates, then doesn’t leave one. The cops could still be listening; they know about Karen Page working for the legal team that defended Frank Castle. And now that he’s known to be alive again, he’s going to have to be more careful. Maybe grow back that beard, lay low for a couple of months.

It doesn’t make contacting her any easier. Frank glares at her door, considers picking the lock, then decides against it.

There’s only one person he can think of—and he hates that he has to do this.

He looks up the right number, then calls it. Odds are, nothing will go through. It’s late for office hours, so he probably won’t—

“Hello,” says a familiar voice. He sounds a little more cheerful than Frank remembers. Probably because he doesn’t know who he’s talking to.

“Hey,” says Frank. “Is Karen all right?”

There’s a long moment of silence. “Who is…” Nelson begins to say, then he sputters on his own words like he’s having trouble getting them out. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah,” says Frank. “Sorry, didn’t know who else to call. She’s not at her place, and she isn’t picking up. She at a hospital?”

There’s a sigh. It sounds more resigned than afraid. “If you’d called a few days ago, I wouldn’t have told you anything. I want you to know that.”

“Okay,” says Frank, feeling more confused than irritated. It is kind of fair; Frank did fuck up Nelson’s trial.

“But we talked and—and I get it,” says Nelson. “It’s screwed up, but I get it. We don’t get to choose some things. And sometimes—sometimes we do.

“She’s at my place,” continues Nelson. “Marci’s still at the office, but I think I could coax her into a late dinner, give you two a few hours.” He rattles off an address. There’s a shift, as if Nelson is taking a tighter hold on his phone. “You do anything to hurt my friend, and you’ll have me to answer to.”

Frank could break him in half in a physical confrontation—and Nelson knows that. But Frank has a feeling that knowledge wouldn’t stop the lawyer from coming after him.

It makes Frank like him more.

“Got it, counselor,” he says. “Thanks.”

He hangs up, then pockets his phone. The journey takes about twenty minutes; Frank takes a roundabout route, keeping too alleys and out of crowds. He can’t afford to be recognized.

He gets to the apartment, uses the code that Nelson gave him to get inside, then takes the stairs. It’s a bit of a climb but he’s had enough of elevators in the last week.

Then he’s at the right door, knocking. Waiting. Heart throbbing with some indeterminate yearning, an ache he can’t quite put a name to.

He sees the shadow as someone peers through the glass peep hole, then the door opens.

Karen is in borrowed clothes. There’s a shirt that sits a little wrong across her shoulders, loose joggers on her legs. Her forearms are bare—which is proof that she must be alone here. She’s always been in long sleeves in public or with other people.

Her eyes rake over him. His own soul marks are more easily hidden beneath his shirt. Her sins are fewer than his.

“Foggy is going to panic if he finds you here,” Karen says.

Frank shakes his head. “Called him when I couldn’t find you. He gave me this address, told me he’d take his lady out for a late night dinner.”

A smile breaks across her face. “You called him?”

“Didn’t know who else to ask,” he replies. “Lieberman’s out of the spy game and the feds did more than enough for me.”

She nods. “They let you go, then?”

“Paid me off,” he says. “Swapped out my fingerprints. Told me to keep my head down. It was the best they could do.”

“And here Ellison was just lecturing me the other day on believing in government conspiracies,” she murmurs. She steps aside, and he walks into the apartment. It’s a little too swanky for his tastes—all glass and marble, with some designer furniture and a small kitchen. It’s a sniper’s dream with all those windows.

Karen makes him a cup of coffee, and they go into the guest bedroom where Karen has been sleeping. It’s a better room; fewer windows. Once Frank has taken a sip and nodded his thanks, he watches Karen’s fingers go to her own arm. She curls a hand around her own skin, almost protectively.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” she asks.

He touches her hand, pries it away from her forearm, runs his thumb across his families’ names. “Already put this one you. Didn’t want you to have to carry anything else.” He tilts his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to see my own sins spelled out,” she says. “I was afraid of what they’d be. I never wanted to find my soulmate, because I—I didn’t want them to know what I did.”

He looks at her gravely, because he understands. More than anyone else, he understands. “Kevin,” he says. “Ben.”

She closes her eyes, like it hurts to hear the names aloud.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“Yeah, I do,” she says. “Just… not now. I don’t know—I don’t even know all of the marks.”

“Okay,” he says softly. He runs his bruised knuckles over her bare arm, back and forth. Now that he’s allowed himself to touch her, he doesn’t want to stop. “You want to see?”

She bites down on her lower lip, then nods.

Frank reaches for the hem of his shirt, then pulls it off. Most of his soul marks are on his torso, which makes this easier. Karen’s hand comes up, hovers over his chest. Kevin’s name is etched into the space just beside his heart. Her other sins are scattered across his skin, all in that blue. Her eyes, he realizes. It really is her eye color—the myths were right about that, at least. Her fingers trace across Ben’s name, then Kevin’s. She walks around him, studying every sin written onto his body. When she’s finished taking her look, she sits down on the edge of the bed. Her shoulders are slumped, heavy with something like grief.

“Hey,” he says, and sits beside her. “Hey, look at me.”

She doesn’t, not at first.

He curls his fingers around hers, squeezes. “Karen. I—I never really gave a shit about having a soulmate. I dated a little in college, and when Maria and I ended up pregnant, and then engaged, I didn’t care that she wasn’t my soulmate. I loved her, and I loved my kids.”

“I know you did,” Karen says, sounding startled.

“I thought about it sometimes,” he admits. “Wondered who was out there that the universe had decided was best for me. I’d hoped that whoever it was—they’d end up finding someone, too. That she’d be happy.” He exhales. “Then that shit with the gangs happened and—and I was glad I’d never met my soulmate. Glad that I didn’t have to see the proof of everything I’d done, everything I’d failed to do. But it wasn’t—wasn’t until I saw you on Lieberman’s camera. He’d put one on your fire escape, so he could see if you put the roses out. I caught a glimpse of your arm, and everything made sense.”

“So that’s how you knew,” she says.

He nods. “Went out to my van and stripped where he couldn’t see me. Wanted to see—to understand every one of these marks.” He leans a little closer, feels the warmth of her skin against his. “That’s when I got it. It wasn’t—I wasn’t ashamed to wear these. I never was. It felt like something entrusted to me, like I was the only one to know what you felt bad about—and for none of it to matter. Because it doesn’t fucking matter, none of it. You could explain every one of these marks to me, and it wouldn’t change how I feel about you.”

* * *

Of all the ways Karen thought this might happen—being in Foggy’s guest bedroom, with a shirtless Frank Castle and a cup of coffee never entered her mind.

He keeps touching her. It’s small things—brushes of his fingers, his shoulder warm and hard against hers. She’s the one to turn into him, to kiss him.

It’s just a brush of his mouth against hers, so soft it might have been accidental. But it isn’t. “Karen,” he breathes, and his hand is on her cheek, thumb against her chin. She tilts her head a little, and their lips meet again.

When he pulls her shirt over her head, she doesn’t try to cover herself. They know one another; they know one another’s sins. 

And she gets it—why his sins don’t bother her. Why hers don’t bother him. 

They’re so much more than their regrets. 

So much more. 


End file.
